


Warpath

by ailurish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:09:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurish/pseuds/ailurish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Dean doesn’t let go, drops his eyes to Sam’s pulse, the narrow focus of his world. His eyes are hungry. “Don’t worry, Sam. I won’t hurt you.”</i> </p><p>Sam dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warpath

**Author's Note:**

> Coda to 6x05 _Live Free or TwiHard_ ; written before mid-season 6.

Sam slides from sleep to nightmare, from oblivion to oblivion, dreaming of darkness. There is no depth to silence. There is no space for it to fill, no absence for it to claim. 

A light flickers in the deep. Its dull orange light casts no shadow, and Sam, whatever there might be of him— _is,_ am, are, to be...?—wonders (where?) if he might be dreaming. Finally. 

The light flickers and bows, returns, and then everything slams into being all at once. Sam, a hard surface at his back, breath filling his lungs and _there_ are his hands, there is his body, that brush of hair in his eyes, the shock of it all receding because it's Dean in front of him, all wrong. 

Dean's fingers curl around Sam's throat, light as a feather, but Sam tenses and tries to drag in air before it's cut off. His heart beats, and beats, and Dean never closes his fist. He's watching Sam—no, watching his throat, eyes following the veins as they pulse beneath his fingertips. The five points on Sam's skin are alive, blood moving thickly through the narrowed veins, rhythmic and silent.

"Dean," Sam manages, and it comes out choked despite his clear airway, rough. Dean's eyes travel to meet Sam's and Dean blinks slowly, breathes out even slower, stuttering breath.

"I won't," says Dean, reassuringly. The tone of his voice tugs at Sam's memory. _'If they got mom, they can get dad. And if they can get dad, they can get us.'_

 _'It's not like that. Trust me.'_

But Dean doesn't let go; he drops his eyes to Sam's pulse, the narrow focus of his world. His eyes are hungry. "Don't worry, Sam. I won't hurt you."

_But I—_

Sam brings a hand to Dean's wrist. His skin is cold, cold enough that Sam can't hold on very long before his fingers start to ache. _“Dean,“_ he chokes again, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Sound slams back into being, roaring around them, pulling at Sam's bones. The way it hurts, it _hurts_ , feels so right; Sam relishes it, the way everything in his chest crumbles and guilt threatens to crush him—no—

Dean's hold on Sam's throat finally tightens, his face twisted in disgust and badly concealed want. "You did this to me, Sam. You did this. You remember what if feels like, huh? The thirst, the _powerlessness_ , you remember it? This is _it_ now. For me. This is the way it will be. Tell me, what's it like? Having a monster for a brother?"

 _Yes_ , thinks Sam. _Please_. His vision begins to blur and he fights for consciousness, anything but that blank oblivion, _please Dean, tell me, Dean, Dean._

One swift blow to the head is all it takes and Sam blacks out, a flash of brightest white and the impression of his brother's fever-hungry eyes, parched skin, mad with the sounds of the world magnified and beating on around him. Sam longs for it, wants to tether himself to his wracking guilt like the straps of his brother's rack up in the screaming caverns of Hell, let his failures light his nerves on fire. 

But there's nothing. 

"Sam?"

He jerks awake. Something rolls off his lap and hits the floor with a decisive thud, and he just barely catches the long creased map before it, too, slides down his legs to join the flashlight in the footwell. Sam sits up. It's daylight, he must have fallen asleep hours ago.

"Where are we?"

"Told you, I know this state like the back of my hand. Follow the cornfield until you reach the _other_ cornfield, take a left and keep to the cow path, bam, you're in the city. See?"

Sam rubs sleep from his eyes. "I'll be damned," he says, and ignores Dean's smirk. He was right. The green road sign ahead is advertising Kansas City, 15 miles. 

"You want a burger? I figure we can grab a bite before we find a place." 

Pain lances across his vision; Sam clutches at his forehead, digging the heel of his hand into his eye.

"Sam?"

Sam gasps, loud and desperate, and it echoes around motel walls. He sits up and clutches at the bedsheets next to his thighs, twisting his fingers in the fabric. His eyes adjust to make out the TV on the dresser, the handles on its drawers, the peripheral shapes of the kitchenette on his right and the bed where Dean is sleeping to his left.

Nothing. His fingers relax, his breathing slows. 

"Dude? Wha—?" Dean murmers, pulling himself upright.

"Go back to sleep, Dean."

"Nightmares?"

Sam turns over, back towards Dean, drawing the sheets back over his shoulders. "I don't have nightmares, Dean. Go back to sleep."

He isn't sure whether or not he dreams again that night. When he wakes for the second time, there is only the memory of nothing. 

Dean is no worse for wear. Sam knows because he watches him while he packs, watches him shut the trunk and get into the car. The cure went off without a hitch, then. Sam smiles, shutting his door behind him. Breath moves through his lungs, blood through his veins. His brother can't hear it. 

There's nothing. _Good_. Nothing.


End file.
